


The Time Captain America Napped on My Couch

by MDJensen



Series: Me and Captain America [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, Jerry is head over heels for Steve btw, Sick Steve, Steve needs a safe place, You can't change my mind, also Steve's kind of a trekkie, couch naps, this is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Danny wasn't the first person that Steve told about the radiation sickness. Set at the end of season 7.





	1. Chapter 1

He’s not staring at his badge.

Jerry is not staring at his badge.

Okay, maybe he is a little bit, staring at it that is, when Steve raps on the doorframe, but to be fair there are more embarrassing things he could be caught doing.

Hastily he slips it back around his neck.

But Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway; just leans against the doorframe like he can’t catch his breath, and that doesn’t seem right. “Jer?”

“Are you okay, commander?”

“If I asked you for a favor, and to not tell anyone, could you?”

About a hundred things occur in one instant, about what that favor could be, but whatever the favor, the answer’s obvious. “Yeah. Of course.”

Steve seems to slump a little further. “Can I crash on your couch for a minute?”

Can he crash. On Jerry’s couch. For a minute?

“Yeah! Um, of course.”

A sideways glance shows only one bankers box currently atop said couch, and Jerry jumps to his feet and hurries to move it aside. Steve shuffles over, sits carefully. “Not feelin’ too hot,” he breathes, rubbing his forehead. “My office, y’know, with the windows, Danny’d be all over me about it. Wouldn’t let me rest. I think I need to just— lie down— ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles, weakly. Then he groans as he curls up on his side, and Jerry processes for the first time how objectively awful he looks. He’s _pale_. Steve McGarrett, white guy though he may be, doesn’t even seem like the kind of person who should be able to go pale. But he is— and sweaty, and woozy-looking, and sort of crumple-folded like bad origami.

For half a minute there’s silence. Steven McGarrett is just lying on the couch in his office, no big deal, and Jerry tries to turn back to his computer, or at least not to stare. Then Steve gives a quiet groan, and lifts himself up a little.

“Jer?”

“Mm?”

“‘m gonna do my best,” Steve huffs, “not t’ throw’p in your office. But can you pass me tha’ trashcan jus’ in case?”

“Right,” Jerry says, as casually as he can. He grabs the trashcan from under his desk and passes it over, absently glad he’d emptied it of candy wrappers just yesterday. Steve puts on the floor right by his head, and lowers himself carefully back to the cushions.

Despite his claims that lying down would help a bit, Steve doesn’t seem to feel any better as the minutes pass. Jerry tries to give him some privacy. He works at his desk and doesn’t turn around, at least not until there’s a shifting noise from the couch.

He looks to find Steve half-upright again. Leaning over the trashcan, staring into it like it holds the secrets of the universe.

It’s definitely a tense moment. That’s not even because it’s Steve; it’s just always tense, waiting to see if somebody’s going to puke.

Eventually, though, Steve seems to decide that he’s not. Not at the moment, anyway. He lies back down, pressing a hand over top of his stomach.

“Not to, uh, danny you,” Jerry begins. “But you could take a sick day, yknow.”

“Not sick,” Steve grunts. Despite the fact that he still looks one wrong move away from spewing like a human volcano. 

“Okay,” Jerry says, lightly, and drops it. Steve came to him— even though it probably had more to do with the location of his office than anything else, Steve still trusted him, to offer a safe place to rest. He’s not betraying that.

Steve sighs, rubs his stomach a bit. Then, though his answer had seemed pretty definitive, he relents. “I mean, yeah, I’m sick. I’m just not contagious or anything.”

“Bad shrimp?”

“I,” Steve begins, then swallows hard. Closes his eyes, swallows again. Whether he’s about to throw up or just about to say something important, Jerry is honestly not sure.

“I ended up— catching too much radiation. From that dirty bomb a few months ago. This is that.”

 _Shit_ , Jerry manages not to say. Radiation poisoning? Is no fucking joke.

Now Jerry kind of feels like puking, too.

“That’s heavy, man,” Jerry gets out, voice gone gravelly. “No heavy metal puns intended.”

Eyes still shut, Steve laughs a little. “Yeah. They’ve got me on some meds. This stuff shouldn’t last more than a few months.”

“This stuff?”

“Nausea, mostly. Fever. Weakness. It comes in these spells. I’ll be better in an hour or two, and then I’ll be fine for a few days. It’s not that bad.”

“Price worth paying?” Jerry suggests, and Steve opens his eyes and smiles at him.

“Right. Price worth paying. And I’ve got a good ten or twenty years before the, um. Bigger stuff.”

“The bigger stuff being cancer,” Jerry clarifies, and Steve nods slowly.

Holy _shit_. Steve is, like, sick. Big sick. And there’s potential for it to get much bigger.

“Does detective Williams know?” Jerry asks, finally.

“Nobody knows, Jerry.”

“Oh. How long have you known?”

“‘bout a week. At first, I’ll be honest, I thought it was side effects from the transplant drugs. But that all had been getting better, and this was getting worse, so, I figured, better get checked out.”

“Yeah,” Jerry agrees. His mouth sort of seems to be functioning on its own, which is good, because his head is still more or less indisposed. “Uh, how you, uh. How you doin’ with it?”

“You said it perfectly, man,” Steve rasps. “Price worth paying. Needs of the many.”

“Wow, did you just quote Star Trek at me? Because I feel like I need to, like, pop some champagne or something.”

“I like Star Trek,” Steve replies, frowning lightly. “Grew up watching Next Gen with my dad.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

To be fair, Jerry always feels sort of giddy around Steve—when he doesn’t need to focus on a case, anyway. It’s just, Steve’s funny. And kind. And smart. And _gorgeous_.

But this is some maximum loopiness right here; not only has Steve trusted him, confided in him something he hasn’t even told Danny Williams yet, he also just admitted to liking Star Trek.

Jerry just wants to hug him. Wants to go over there and scoop him up in his arms and tell him that he’ll feel better soon, but it’s okay to feel crappy now; tell him he’s got a whole team rooting for him, tell him that he can crash here whenever he wants and maybe Jerry can even stick some Trek on his computer and they can just chill together.

He doesn’t say any of that, of course.

“So, you should probably try to sleep for a few minutes,” he says, instead. “Cat nap style. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sounds good, actually.”

“You want the room? I don’t mind. I could turn off the lights.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind the company,” Steve admits, smiling weakly.

Jerry says nothing, but smiles back.

Steve’s only just fallen asleep when his phone goes off, buzzing against the tile floor where he’s placed it. Jerry snatches it—and silences it. Knowing Steve might hate him for this but also knowing that if there’s actually a case, they’ll all be aware within the next two minutes no matter what.

Out of curiosity, Jerry checks; sees that it’s Danny who’s called. He doesn’t call back, very much supporting the not-a-case theory, though a few minutes later Jerry’s own phone lights up.

It’s two texts, back-to-back, from Danny:

_Is Steve still with you_

_Tell him to answer his phone_

It occurs to Jerry that, possibly for the first time in forever, he’s been given the chance to be Captain America’s protector. Even if it’s just letting him sleep a little more. That’s definitely something he can do.

 _No, I think he died of boredom_ , Jerry replies.

_Won’t say I’m not offended but IIWII_

Never let it be said that Jerry Ortega can’t play people. Because the next thing that comes is exactly what he intends.

_Okay im scared to ask. What is that supposed to be. Is it a live long a prosper thing. Is it a world of Warcraft thing._

_IIWII = it is what it is. Detective_ , Jerry types, and can more or less hear Danny sigh.

 _Tell him im getting lunch without him_ , he replies, and that’s the last thing he says. Mission accomplished. Rest undisturbed.

Steve’s been out at least ten minutes now, so Jerry feels safe to turn around and look at him. Just as he does, Steve winces in his sleep.

And Jerry aches, literally aches, with the yearning to slip his shoes off and cover him with a blanket. Not that he has a blanket. Or thinks that he could slip those boots off without a struggle.

And not that Steve would want him to do any of those things anyway. But it’s a nice thought.

Jesus, poor Steve. Less than a year after being shot to pieces and laid up for months, now he’s got radiation poisoning? That’s, like. That’s a big deal, honestly.

It’s a big deal—and he told Jerry? Told Jerry before anyone else, it seems?

Steve sleeps on and Jerry puts his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the fear of it, overwhelmed by all the other things he feels around Steve, too.

He doesn’t get much done while Steve sleeps. And he sleeps for well over an hour.

When Steve wakes, he wakes with a sigh, stirring drowsily on the couch for half a minute before he finally opens his eyes. Eventually he sits, blinking groggily.

“Hey,” Jerry says, turning in his chair.

“Hey,” Steve coughs, rubbing his face.

“How you feelin’?”

“Better, yeah.” He coughs again, then lowers his hands. “Better. Bit groggy, but, don’t really feel like throwing up anymore. That’s nice.”

“That is nice.”

“An’ I think my fever’s gone,” Steve murmurs, feeling his forehead. Without meaning to, Jerry laughs.

“What?”

“You do know you can’t actually tell your own temperature, right?”

“So they say. But I don’t exactly see a school nurse around here to ask.”

Does he dare? Does he _fucking_ dare?

Yes, apparently; without a word Jerry gets to his feet, goes to Steve’s side, and holds his hand out, not touching. Steve snorts and leans forward, which seems to be permission.

So Jerry puts the back of his hand, as gently as possible, to Steve’s brow; lets it linger a moment before doing the same thing on his cheek.

“Normal,” Jerry declares. And somewhere in there, Steve’s eyes must have closed, because they open now.

“Thanks, Jerry.”

“Yeah. Anytime. That’s not to say, I don’t hope you start feelin’ better soon.”

Steve laughs gently. “Right, no, I hear you.”

With a twinge of disappointment, Jerry realizes that Steve’s making to stand up; he steps back, giving space for it. On his feet, Steve claps Jerry’s shoulder.

“I appreciate it. Really, man.”

“’course.”

“And if anybody asks, I was down here so you could fill me in on—um.”

“I’ll think of something,” Jerry promises, earning him one last grateful smile.

“Gonna go face the music about not being at Danny’s beck and call for an hour there.” Steve pulls a face and then, with nothing further between them, he leaves.

Jerry flops onto the couch. It’s warm, and for just a moment he lets himself sit there and stoop beneath everything: how lovely it felt when Steve trusted him. How scary it feels, that Steve’s actually pretty sick.

It’s all just an awful lot to process and Jerry sinks back and focuses on one random thought: he’s definitely going to bring a blanket to work, to keep on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed the other day that Jerry's office also has a couch in it, and this story just hasn't left me alone since.


	2. Chapter 2

Jerry does bring that blanket in. A few days later, when the whole thing happens again, Steve doesn’t notice, and Jerry feels pretty stupid about it. But it’s worth it in the end. Because the third time Steve crashes on his couch, he does notice it; stares at it for a second like he expects it to be a mirage, then gets his boots off and curls up underneath it. He’s out in less than a minute. Which is good because then he can’t see Jerry more or less staring at him, absorbing the image of him hugging the hem of the blanket to his chin, its pale blue color a gentle contrast to his feverish cheeks.

Maybe it’s the blanket that finally gets the point across. The point that Steve is welcome in Jerry’s office— “don’t forget, I’ve slept in yours before”—at absolutely any point in time. To sleep, or just to rest. To feel crappy and miserable and safe, away from prying eyes and questioning voices.

The fourth time, Steve doesn’t even ask. Just knocks, smiles tiredly when Jerry lets him in; takes off his boots and wraps the blanket around himself like a cocoon, then falls asleep, half-upright against the couch’s arm.

Jerry’s had time, now, to get used to it too. He doesn’t spend more than a minute or two screaming internally before he gets back to work, though a general sense of Steve’s presence stays with him as he does.

It’s the feeling of a friend nearby. A combination of almost physical warmth, like an aura, with the soft sound of slightly congested breathing, and—

Oh.

And the sound of somebody waking up gagging.

In half an instant the world flips rightside up again; Steve’s not here to keep Jerry company, or even just to nap and be lovely. He’s here to sleep, and he’s sleeping because he’s sick.

And now he’s going to _be_ _sick_ , apparently.

At the same time Jerry’s been processing this, he’s already grabbed the trashcan from under his desk and turned around. “You need—?” he asks, leaving most of the question unsaid, and Steve, with one hand clapped over his mouth, reaches out with the other hand and grabs the trashcan from Jerry. Fits it in his lap, clutching it with both hands now, and coughs.

“Fuck,” Steve groans— and then throws up hugely.

Jerry winces. He’s not a sympathy puker— luckily— but still finds himself a kind of queasy at the sight. And the sounds. He can’t even call it _retching_ because it’s honestly more like Steve’s vital organs have gone to war against each other to see which one gets to come out of his mouth first.

(Is it weird that Jerry sort of finds the vulnerability endearing?)

Whatever— now’s hardly the time— so Jerry springs into action, double-checking that the door is shut before grabbing a box of tissues and bringing it to Steve’s side. In a moment’s respite, Steve blinks up at him with watery eyes.

“Puked in your office after all,” he rasps. “Sorry, man.”

“You’re good,” Jerry soothes. “Promise.”

For a second he thinks Steve might say something else— but then he lurches forward, and lets go another gush of yellowish liquid. He gasps, coughs, gags again. Barely catching his breath between waves now, pitched forward again and again by his stomach’s contractions. Wretched and pukey and miserable.

Jerry knows what he _wants_ to do: he _wants_ to swallow his own queasiness and sit down next to Steve, stroke his sweaty hair and cement himself as the one who stayed by Steve’s side through what could be considered, objectively, a gross and pretty embarrassing moment. Wants to brace Steve through the shaking and heaving. Wants to speak quietly to him and remind him that no matter how much this sucks, it won’t last more than a few more minutes.

That’s what he wants to do. What he does is take out his phone, open his music app, and play the first song it offers at full volume, disguising at least partially the guttural noises with the rapid chords of Old 97’s.

 _I’ve got a timebomb, in my mind, mom_ , Rhett Miller sings, and Steve laughs hoarsely, between retches.

“Did you— _urgh_ — put on mood music, man?”

“I mean, I figured you didn’t wanna hear yourself.”

“I still hear— _gahk_ — hear myself— Jerry.”

“I can turn it off.”

“No, I— I like this song. ‘course now ‘m gonna— _urgh_ — now ‘m gonna think ‘bout throwin’ up when I hear it.”

“Oops,” Jerry says, but leaves it on; glad for the distraction if not for the way that the rapid tempo seems to match the rhythm of his pounding heart.

The song’s about three minutes long. By the time it’s over Steve is mostly just dry-heaving, so Jerry turns the music way down for the next song and nudges the tissues a little closer before flopping down at his desk.

“You alive?” he prompts, finally.

Without lifting his head, Steve flashes the _all good_ , thumb and pinky extended. Then he spits in the trash can. Finally he puts it on the floor and lays back, shivering; his eyes are streaming reflex tears and his nose is bleeding slightly.

“I didn’t,” he croaks, “enjoy that.”

“Yeah. That was a bad one. You, um. Done with this?”

With effort, Steve looks where Jerry’s indicating; when he sees it’s the trash can he sighs in misery. “No. Don’t think so.”

“‘kay.”

“Eye of the storm sort of a thing, right now.”

Jerry stands slowly, giving Steve time to react, ask him to stay away. He doesn’t. So Jerry tugs the blanket out from behind Steve’s back, where it’s gotten bunched, and wraps it around his shoulders and across his chest. Steve grasps it in place with one trembling hand. Then Jerry puts the tissues in his lap—apparently he hasn’t noticed them yet and he needs some, badly—and sits down at his desk again.

Moving sluggishly, Steve cleans himself of puke and spittle. (And blood, and snot, and tears, and sweat.) Jerry just sort of waits, on standby, until eventually Steve glances at him in one tiny upward motion.

Not sure what else to do, he smiles. Steve smiles back, looking wrung out and shaken but calm, for the moment.

In the silence Jerry’s senses hone in one his music again.

And see this, this is just more evidence for apps collecting auditory information to make decisions for you, because, Jerry realizes, that his phone is currently playing Daniel Powter.

 _You had a bad day, the camera don’t lie_ , the song empathizes. _You’re coming back down and you really don’t mind— you had a bad day— you had a bad day—_

And Steve must have noticed when Jerry did, because he laughs again.

Laughs, then jolts; makes a soft, miserable noise and folds in on himself.

Time for round two.

One hand to his mouth, one hand to his stomach, he’s got no hands left to grab the trashcan, so Jerry moves quickly, shoves the (unfortunately sloshy) receptacle under Steve’s head and holds it steady for him. Steve grunts in thanks—or maybe just grunts—then starting puking again.

It’s not quite as bad as last time but, to be clear, it still sucks. Not ten seconds in Steve starts shaking again, violently, and Jerry can’t stop himself from getting a hand on the man’s back and rubbing circles through the blanket. Steve lets him. Or maybe Steve’s just so miserable that he hasn’t noticed, but Jerry chooses to believe that he’s been given permission. Permission to look after Steve McGarrett. Permission to comfort him a little, and to make sure he doesn’t throw up in his own lap, both of which are pretty important responsibilities.

This time, when it ends, Steve sighs in relief. Jerry pulls the trashcan away and Steve puts his head in his hands and sits, panting. “Okay, okay,” he mumbles. “’m good now. Okay.”

“Think you’re finished?”

“Yeah. Yeah. It comes ‘nd goes. Yeah, no, ‘m okay now.”

Jerry’s not sure whether or not to trust him, but senses that Steve needs a minute alone anyway. Well, he could kill two birds with one stone. That seems like the best course of action, so Jerry pats Steve’s back and, carefully schooling his face, takes the trashcan and heads to the bathroom.

It’s not the worst thing he’s ever had to clean, honestly. (Not to get too detailed about it, but it seems like Steve hadn’t really eaten today.)

Trashcan clean, Jerry heads back, stopping at the vending machine to buy a bottle of water and a roll of mint Lifesavers—for both nausea-fighting and breath-freshening purposes. When he opens the door to his office, Steve smiles at him, again.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, as Jerry hands him the goods; he sips a little water before popping a mint in his mouth and laying back again.

Just then Steve’s phone buzzes. His calm evaporates, and he seems thoroughly miserable yet again.

“Danny,” he sighs, looking at Jerry with heavy eyes. “Third time in a row.”

“Answer it.”

“I don’t—”

“Answer it, commander.”

Steve looks at him with suspicion, but does as he’s told, swiping to open the line then holding the phone to his ear. “McGarrett,” he says, neutrally.

“ _Don’t_ McGarrett _me_ ,” Danny’s voice says, through the little speaker. “ _What are you two doing down there? What if it were important_ —”

Jerry grabs the phone from Steve’s hand (giving no forewarning, so that his noise of surprise is genuine.) “Hey, Danny,” he says, before Danny can go on.

“ _Are you two okay? I swear Steve’s been down there more than_ —”

“We’re fine. Listen. I haven’t said anything to anyone but, like. I’m going through some. Personal stuff. Okay? And—and the commander’s just been talkin’ me through some of it. Sorry for stealing him.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Danny replies, appropriately startled. “ _Okay. Sorry, man, I didn’t—I didn’t know if you two were building a time machine or heaving a séance with JFK or something_ —”

“No time machines, no séances,” Jerry swears, which makes Steve snort. “I’ll return him undamaged, I promise.”

“ _Okay. Bye, Jerry_.”

“Bye, Danny,” Jerry replies; ends the call and passes the phone back. Steve considers him thoughtfully, as it takes it.

“Impressive,” he declares, at last.

“Thanks.”

“No, thanks—thank you, Jerry. I hate how much he worries. So thanks. And thanks for, you know— man, you didn’t have to clean that, by the way.” Steve’s looking decidedly awkward now.

“No biggie. ‘swhat we do. I am part of the team now, afterall. Right?”

But rather than dissipate, the discomfort on Steve’s face just deepens. “Jerry,” he says, softly. “You have always been a part of the team, man. You think you weren’t?”

“Um. Well. It’s nice to be official.”

“You were always part of the team,” Steve repeats, maybe even looking the slightest bit upset now. “I’m sorry you felt like you weren’t. I didn’t—I didn’t think you were quite law enforcement ready. But that didn’t mean you weren’t already _ohana_.”

“Right, no. Of course. Relax, commander, that’s not how I meant it.”

It was, a little bit, but he wasn’t fishing for so honest a reaction.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, brother,” Steve says. He holds eye contact the entire time, and when he finally looks away Jerry feels like crying.

Doesn’t honestly know if they’d be happy tears or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With much love to aries_taurus, whose plot bunny convinced me to extend this a bit :) Hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, Jerry really takes comfort from these visits as well. Outside his office it feels like everything is changing. Hard on the heels of Max’s departure, Chin gathers them all together one morning to announce that he’s taking an offer to head his own task force in California. Which is awesome. Beyond awesome. Still, Max has left and Chin is leaving and Susie’s, y’know, so suddenly Jerry’s inner circle feels kind of empty.

Steve isn’t inner circle. Probably wouldn’t want to be, honestly, and probably wouldn’t want Jerry in his; still there’s no denying they’ve gotten— kind of close, really.

Steve throws him a party, for the badge. It’s not a surprise party— “you’d probably be as hard to surprise as I am, Jer”— but still the fact of it is indeed surprising. And yeah, kind of touching.

At one point, a day or two before, Steve blinks up at him from the couch and, apropos of nothing, tells Jerry that he’d be throwing the party for him anyway, even without the couch crashing thing. And Jerry believes him. But there’s no denying it means a little bit more, now.

The party’s awesome, if emotional. Jerry fake cries when Flippah serenades him but real cries when Chin runs a slide show he’s put together, even including some horrible pictures of them as high school kids, acne-riddled and dressed for the 80’s. Everyone laughs; then Chin gives a toast that’s more of a goodbye.

Jerry might have a few more drinks than usual, after that, and it’s not until Chin offers to drive him home and he goes around to say his goodnight’s that he realizes Kono’s never arrived.

*

Monday afternoon Steve shuffles in, takes his usual place. It’s their first day without Kono and their last week with Chin, and Steve looks not only sick but also kind of lonely.

Jerry gives him a smile, and the trashcan. (Steve only actually used it that one day, though Jerry suspects that sometimes he comes down to the bunker by way of the men’s room.) Steve covers himself with the blanket, but doesn’t lie down.

For a minute Jerry thinks that maybe that’s a good thing; maybe he needs a break but isn’t worn out enough to sleep. It’s quickly clear that that’s not the case, though. Steve isn’t sitting up, exactly; rather he’s sort of folded in on himself, protecting his belly like an animal protecting a wound. A few minutes in, and he looks worse than usual.

“You know,” Jerry clicks his pen, tries to be casual. “Not to be too graphic or anything. But you might feel better if you just went ahead and, y’know. Got it over with.”

Steve gives a tiny shrug; doesn’t look up for moving any more than this. “I’m not really nauseous. Sometimes it’s more just straight-up pain.”

“Scale of one to ten?” Jerry prompts.

“Six,” Steve says, after a moment’s thought, which is kind of scary because Jerry had already decided to take him to the hospital for a seven or above.

Maybe sensing the impulse, Steve smiles weakly. “Jerry, it’s already being dealt with. I’m on the meds, and my radiation levels are coming down. I’ve just gotta ride it out.”

“That sucks.”

“I mean, it does, but I swear, I’ll be fine in a few hours. If you take me to the hospital now, not only will it not make a difference, but also I will puke in your car.”

“Thought you weren’t nauseous.”

“I’ll do it just to prove my point,” Steve replies, one eyebrow twitching upwards.

“Fine. Ride it out. Can I get you anything?”

“Nah. I’m gonna try to close my eyes. Maybe sleep a bit.”

Jerry takes this as his cue to turn back around. He works on the computer for a bit, then switches to reading a (relevant!) book; it’s easy to forget in moments like these, but Steve is in fact his boss. He doesn’t want to look idle.

He gets through ten pages or so before turning around to check—and finding Steve far from asleep. Arms hugged around his knees, nearly wincing.

“Sleep’s not happenin’?”

“Sleep’s not happening,” Steve agrees, cracking one eye open.

“Pain’s that bad, huh,” Jerry says, smiling so Steve knows he doesn’t expect an answer. “Maybe— you need a distraction?”

“I’m not sure how much I could focus on right now,” Steve admits. He sits back, but only a little.

“Well, I was just thinking, maybe Netflix or something? I could put it on my big monitor.”

Steve thinks a moment. Then a small smile breaks through the creases of his frown.

“What?”

“I was thinking of when I was a kid. My parents had a TV in their bedroom, and when I was home sick from school, my dad would carry it into my room. I didn’t watch a lot of TV, most of the time, so it was kind of special. Made— y’know. It sort of made being sick less of a big deal. Less scary.”

Steve actually looks like he’s going slightly misty, which makes Jerry’s insides do weird, soft things. “So, you up for it?” he asks, not dwelling.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Next Gen?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, quietly. Then, in a normal voice: “Anything without Q.”

“Aw, man. No love?”

“No love for Q. And no Lwaxana, either.”

“Dunno if I should be annoyed by your opinions, or impressed that you’re in deep enough to have them.”

“I told you, this was our thing, me and my dad. I didn’t watch much TV, but Trek? The world stopped for it, man.”

They laugh. Jerry hits play on a Barclay episode because, let’s face it, he’s kind of the Barclay of Five-0. If Barclay had the hots for Will Riker, instead of Deanna Troi. Then he settles in his desk chair and spins it to the perfect angle.

They watch in silence, up through the theme song. Then:

“You can sit here,” Steve says, evenly. “I’m not contagious.”

And no, obviously he’s not contagious, so Jerry can’t understand how that statement could really be anything other than a request. So Jerry moves. Immediately. Doesn’t even care if Steve’s seeking company or just body heat; he’ll happily provide either.

He doesn’t put his arm around Steve. What he does so is get himself comfy in one corner, and totally not make a big thing out of it when Steve moves a little closer, settling himself cross-legged on the middle cushion.

Slowly they both sink deeper. More than half the episode passes this way.

Then Steve makes a soft, unhappy noise— not a whimper, because Steve McGarrett is definitely not somebody who’d whimper— and shifts, bringing his knees to his chest again.

“Worse?” Jerry asks.

“Eh.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Nah.” A pause. “I told Danny, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he take it? Or— have you been avoiding him since then?”

“I may have, to a certain extent, been avoiding him since then.”

“When did you tell him?”

“Friday.”

And with that one word, a couple of things slot together in Jerry’s mind. “You had a spell at the party.”

“Mm. Yeah.”

For a moment Jerry finds himself almost angry. Totally irrational, of course, only Steve has kind of—needed him, lately? That’ll be over, now that Danny knows. As soon as they go ahead and talk things out, these couch crashings will almost definitely end.

“You should’ve told me.”

“And what, monopolize the guest of honor so he could come hold my hair back?”

“I would have.”

Steve sighs, rubbing at his stomach fretfully. “I know you would have, man. But it wasn’t a bad one. Didn’t think anyone was gonna notice at all, but Danny Williams has this ability to, like, be exactly where you don’t want him to be—”

And that, of course, is when Danny barges in.

“Ah,” he says, his voice calmer than his face would indicate. “This is where. This is—right. I wondered where you’d been hiding out, if you got sick at work. Jerry, this would be your personal issues, then?”

“Hey, Danny,” Jerry says, lamely. Beside him Steve is just sitting, looking miserable but more or less just taking the abuse.

Danny steps in, lets the door slam behind him. Closes his eyes and breathes, looking like he wants to scream, or sob, or kick Steve in the balls. Or all three.

Without opening his eyes, he says instead: “I feel like you feel like you can’t trust me.”

Steve sighs; then his expression settles into one of determination. “Danno. I love you.”

Danny’s eyes open. “Yes.”

“But sometimes you get—emotional.”

“I get _emotional_?”

“You get really upset about things.”

“How _could I not_ get upset about this, Steve?!”

“Hey,” Steve says, softly. “I didn’t mean it that way. All I meant was, I needed to tell someone—who’d take it calmly. Okay?”

“So you told _Jerry_?!”

Ooh, okay, fuck you too, Williams. Jerry tries not to feel stung by that but to be honest, even if he and Steve aren’t friends outside of work, he and Danny _are_. He’s been told, repeatedly, that he’s Charlie’s second-favorite uncle, even. So, ouch.

But Steve intervenes before Jerry has to. “Hey, man. I get that you’re upset but don’t take it out on him. You felt like you should have known first, and you didn’t, and you’re hurt by that. But the thing is—” Steve pauses.

“This has really thrown me through one, Danny,” he says, finally. “I did what felt best to me, and I need you to acknowledge that I didn’t do that to hurt you.”

Danny processes this—and sags in on himself. Stands there with his hands on his hips and his chin to his chest. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“Hey, Jer,” Steve says.

“Yeah?”

“I can’t really stand up right now, so could you give Danny a hug, please?”

And Jerry laughs a little, because c’mon, that’s cute. He gets up, goes over, and opens his arms.

Danny hesitates a moment—then flops forward, and clings to Jerry with the greediness of somebody who has needed this comfort really badly. Like, _fucking_ badly. It’s a solid half minute before Danny even begins to pull his weight back, and from there it’s another few seconds before he actually lets go.

“Thanks, buddy,” he mumbles, clapping Jerry’s shoulder. “You know I love you, man.”

Jerry pats his hand. “Yeah, I know. You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

He’s absolutely not, but Jerry doesn’t press.

“Sit with us, Danno,” Steve coaxes; he hasn’t moved from the couch, though he’s cross-legged again instead of folded up.

“Sit with you?”

“We’re watchin’ Star Trek.”

“Oh my god. That’s what you do down here, you curl up on the couch and watch nerd shit?”

“Usually I sleep,” Steve replies. “But I’m feeling too crappy to sleep now, and this _nerd shit_ is helping keep my mind off it. _Daniel_.”

“Ugh. Jeez.” With little ceremony, Danny flops onto the empty couch cushion and starts taking his shoes off. “You’re so defensive. Defend Jerry against me, fine, I deserved that. But now we’re defending William Shatner?”

“Patrick Stewart,” Jerry and Steve say, _at the same fucking time_ , and Jerry may or may not get a little woozy for a moment there. He shakes it off, restarts the episode, and returns to his seat.

They watch in fairly comfortable silence; when the episode ends, nobody stops Netflix from going right onto the next one. Steve still clearly feels like shit. Danny seems to be taking the opportunity to calm himself down about the whole situation; and Jerry, of course, would never protest time spent with Steve. (Or spent watching Trek.)

As time goes on, they all arrange themselves more comfortably; Danny’s got his head on Steve’s shoulder now, and fine, yes, Jerry’s kind of jealous, but at least Steve’s next to him. Would he like to put an arm around him, sure. But he doesn’t really know if that would be okay and, even if he might have asked without Danny here, Danny’s here. So.

But Danny himself proves to be much less concerned with such niceties. Not far into the second episode, he sighs.

“Jesus Christ, Steve.”

“What?”

“You’re shivering so bad it’s giving _me_ a headache.”

“Wow, I’m sorry my feverishness is inconveniencing you, Danno.”

“Not what I meant,” Danny snaps. “Just— Jesus, Steve, you’ll take half my liver but you won’t let me share my body heat?”

“Yeah, I was wondering if that was like, okay,” Jerry chimes in. “Or it’d be too much up in your space, commander.”

“What?”

“We’re asking permission to snuggle you. Goof.”

“You are kind of shivering pretty bad, man.”

“I’m not stopping you from doing anything!” Steve laughs. “It’s not a big deal, though.”

Danny sighs again. “Jerry, help,” he orders; then Jerry feels Steve’s body being physically pushed against his own as Danny makes what could only be called a Steve sandwich.

Steve grunts, gives in. And leans heavily into Jerry.

Everything sort of stops for a second. When it finally restarts, with a burst of hyperspeed, Jerry finds himself with an arm across Steve’s back, Steve’s cheek squished into Jerry’s upper arm, and Danny’s weight pressing them insistently together from the other side. Steve’s still shivering, but nowhere near as badly.

Judging from the progress of the show on his computer screen, Jerry’s lost at least a few solid minutes to this overjoyed delirium. Back with it now, he shifts his head a little—and realizes one more thing.

Steve’s asleep. Steve McGarrett is cuddled up to his side and is completely, undeniably asleep, despite recent claims that he was too miserable for this to be possible. Without meaning to, Jerry catches Danny’s eyes, and they smile.

“Hey.” Mindful of the sleeping man between them, Danny keeps his voice to less than a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Thanks, Jerry. For lookin’ after him.”

Afraid he won’t keep quiet enough, afraid he’ll say something stupid anyway, Jerry just gives a thumbs up. Danny smiles, warmly, and they both sink back against the cushions.

Steve, barely shivering at all now, shifts a little without waking; he sighs lightly, rubs his cheek against Jerry’s sleeve. Jerry’s half holding his breath by now, for fear of disturbing him.

So maybe that’s part of the reason he feels himself go a little lightheaded—certainly not the main reason, though. Of course. It doesn’t matter, anyway; it doesn’t bother him. He just lets his eyes slip shut and tries to focus on the feel of warmth beside him; tries to capture every detail of every moment of the time that Steve McGarrett not only took a nap on his couch, but on his _shoulder_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right then! This one took off more than I intended it to. Thanks so much to all who read and commented; I hope you enjoy the ending! That's all I've got for this one, but I don't think I'm done with the Steve/Jerry dynamic in general... :)


End file.
